Maybe Today
by JWood201
Summary: Gilligan finally expresses his feelings, but it might be too late. AU "Rescue From Gilligan's Island."


_I wrote this a million years ago, before I started my other post-rescue series. It's overly dramatic and kind of sentimental and I can't decide if it's kind of a crackfic or not. It's not my favorite thing I've written, but it is what it is. :) And I made myself laugh way too hard at the "An Officer and a Gentleman" reference._

_Loosely inspired by and based on the song "The Man Who Can't Be Moved" by The Script._

_Shout out to my buddy Teobi, from which I stole the image of sick G Man._

_AU __Rescue From Gilligan's Island__._

**Maybe Today**

Gilligan shifts uncomfortably on the hot cement, pulls his sleeping bag further underneath his burning rear end.

The world looks different from the ground. He feels smaller, but at the same time bigger. More empowered, purposeful, even though he's always looking up at everyone.

He watches the people. He stares at their shins as they pass. Tourists in tacky shorts and bathing suits. Middle-aged European guys wearing socks with their sandals. Dogs stop to sniff him and when he's in a good mood he scratches them behind the ears. He hears the old ladies whispering about him and he tries to ignore them. Most of them "aw" and pout at him, but some of them roll their eyes and wave their manicures at him from under their parasols, muttering for him to pull himself together.

When a shapely pair of tan legs pauses in front of him, his head snaps up hopefully, but it's always Alani bringing him his lunch from the restaurant down the street. She smiles at him, hands him the hamburger the Skipper pays for every morning on his way to the harbor, and says, "Maybe today, ipo."

He's been sitting here for nearly a week. He's parked himself on Ala Moana Park Drive, a good distance from the parking lot and near the entrance to the beach. It's a nice spot – on the corner, shady for most of the day with a view of the ocean.

It's also the place where he first met her. He was rushing, late for work as usual, different scenarios of the Skipper yelling at him roaring through his head. He didn't see or hear her until he had knocked her onto the pavement and tripped over her himself. He sprang to his feet and pulled her off the ground, apologizing profusely, bright red and horrified. She smiled at him uncertainly from under her straw hat, told him it was okay, brushed off her black swimsuit. He frowned at her, brows furrowed severely, holding her beach towel and her sappy romance novel out to her. _You know, this is exactly how Rex and Daphne met_, she informed him. She tapped the cover of her novel and he looked enlightened. _I just got to the part where he sweeps her off her feet when she tries to leave him._ She sighed a little, wistfully, and his eyes widened as he caught sight of the shirtless 1800's sailor on the cover, his muscular arms wrapped around a tiny woman. She looked embarrassed then. _It's historical fiction_, she added. _Educational_. She took the book back and hid it within the folds of her beach towel, wincing a little, and he noticed the scrape on her left elbow, which sent him into another panic. He offered her all sorts of compensation for his clumsiness – a chocolate malted, a hamburger, a chocolate covered hamburger, the moon, the stars, and his comic book collection – before finally telling her to come to the harbor at five o'clock and take the three hour boat tour of the islands that he and his buddy gave. For free, of course. He made her promise three times to show up before he grinned and abruptly turned to sprint down the sidewalk, holding his hat to his head with one hand.

After the hubbub of their rescue died down, the castaways were faced with the sobering truth of leaving each other. Hugs and kisses and tears and promises to keep in touch were exchanged and the Howells were the first to depart last week, followed by the Professor, returning to Ohio and his laboratory.

The following day, the Skipper and Gilligan returned to the airport to see Mary Ann off. As soon as word of the rescue had reached Winfield, Kansas, George and Martha Summers descended on Honolulu. Gilligan showed them around the island, nervously pulling his hat from his head every time Aunt Martha grinned at him and calling Uncle George "sir" twelve times in one sentence. The five of them stood in the airport, awkwardly mired in thick silence, three castaways and three farmers, until the flight was called.

Mary Ann hugged her friends and kissed Gilligan tenderly on the cheek. He handed over her suitcase and her romance novel, now tattered and water stained. She gave him one last small smile, but could barely meet his eyes as she turned away.

Mary Ann was halfway to the perky stewardess stationed at the door to the jetway when she heard him blurt it out.

Mary Ann froze. The airport went silent and she heard a chorus of "awws" behind her. Someone took a picture. Her eyes widened. The stewardess was beaming at her, nodding eagerly. Mary Ann slowly turned around, her boarding pass hanging dumbly from one hand.

Gilligan looked more confused than usual. Traumatized. Uncertain. Terrified. Proud. Relieved.

After fifteen years, the image of her walking away from him for probably the last time had finally pulled the words from deep inside his guts and released them into the air. Without thinking about it, the words had exploded from him and plunged the entire terminal into silence.

Mary Ann stared at him and for a long moment no one moved. An older woman sniffled and took another picture. "Mary Ann?" She turned and looked back toward the jetway. Aunt Martha had reappeared in the doorway, looking anxious. "They're holding the plane for you. Come on, dear." Mary Ann blinked at her slowly, still trying to justify her beloved aunt being in the same scene as the people she'd lived with for the past fifteen years. Mary Ann turned to look at Gilligan. "Mary Ann!" her aunt called impatiently and she glanced back again. Uncle George had appeared in the doorway behind her and the restless pilot behind him.

Mary Ann slowly turned back to Gilligan. He was watching her, his face unreadable. She felt dozens of pairs of eyes on her, her aunt and uncle's confused gazes boring into her back. The older ladies in the crowd were watching her with wide eyes, hands over their hearts. The men looked stunned. Even the kids looked up, intrigued. The ticket agent paused in her announcements, microphone clutched hopefully in one hand. Behind Gilligan, the Skipper's jaw was halfway to the floor.

Mary Ann swallowed hard. "What took you so long?" she whispered.

They stared at each other for another moment. Then Mary Ann turned and began slowly heading for the plane. She handed her boarding pass to the deflated stewardess without looking at her, watching her aunt and uncle's backs in front of her as she followed them into her old life, her real life.

Gilligan stared after her, his body immobile, but his brain reeling, urging him forward, screaming at him. Finally, his feet got the message and he sprang into action. He bolted after her, ignoring the flight crew's shouts that he wasn't allowed on the plane. The ladies in the terminal clapped happily, the men hollered after him, encouraging him. He leapt over someone's suitcase, the crowd disappearing and their shouts becoming muffled as he surged onto the jetway. He barreled down the hall, his sneakers banging against the floor.

Gilligan skidded to a halt and grabbed Mary Ann's left elbow just as she was about to step onto the plane. He spun her around, slipped his arm around her waist, and pulled her close. He kissed her before she had time to react and her eyes widened. She stood still, paralyzed with shock, until her suitcase slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor. Her romance novel tumbled after it, Rex and Daphne landing face down on the cold metal floor, and she raised both hands to his cheeks, closing her eyes. His other arm wound around her and she sighed, rising up on her toes and hurrying to kiss him back.

When Gilligan finally pulled back, Mary Ann blinked up at him, speechless. He glanced over her shoulder. George and Martha Summers and the entire flight crew stood just inside the plane, varying levels of shock spread across their features. He turned to Aunt Martha, who looked moderately thrilled at what she just witnessed. "Nice to finally meet you, ma'am." Gilligan's gaze slid to Uncle George, who didn't look so pleased. Gilligan gulped. "Sir."

Out in the terminal, tourists and airport employees crowded around the entrance to the jetway, staring after Gilligan. The Skipper stood back, alone in the waiting area, watching. "Do you see him?" one nosy young guy in the throng whispered.

"Do you think he went with them?"

"Of course not," the ticket agent shot back. "He doesn't have a ticket."

"Wait, I hear something!"

An older woman in a flowered muumuu pushed her way to the front of the crowd and held her camera up expectantly. "What? Where? Is she with him?"

The group went silent, straining their ears, crossing their fingers, biting their lips. Footsteps echoed on the metal floor of the jetway. They were getting closer, louder, and the group leaned forward as one. An oddly shaped shadow appeared on the wall, just around the bend, and the crowd held its collective breath.

The Skipper watched the crowd huddled around the doorway. He sighed. He was just about to go after Gilligan, to apologize to the pilot, to save Gilligan the agony and embarrassment of whatever was happening, when the crowd suddenly burst into cheers. Applause, whooping, and hollering echoed through the building, making the commotion seem even louder and more joyous than the fanfare of their rescue. The Skipper's frown slid off his face and his eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his cap.

The crowd parted and Gilligan appeared. He was carrying Mary Ann in his arms.

Gilligan grinned when he saw the Skipper. He laughed as the crowd slapped him on the back, gave him congratulatory shakes. The lady in the muumuu linked her flowered lei around his neck. Gilligan looked over at Mary Ann and she couldn't help but lean in and kiss him on the cheek. The crowd cheered louder, slapped Gilligan on the back harder. Guys wolf whistled. Ladies fanned themselves. If Mrs. Howell were there, she probably would've fainted. Mary Ann blushed furiously and hid her face in Gilligan's shoulder, her arms looped around his neck.

She peeked up when Gilligan broke from the crowd and reached the Skipper, who was smiling and shaking his head. He took Mary Ann's suitcase from the flight attendant behind them and threw an arm around Gilligan's shoulders.

That's not the way it happened.

Gilligan jerks awake on the cold cement to discover his face being licked by one of the dogs that routinely visit him. Beyond the dog, the Skipper has his massive arms crossed over his chest and is frowning down at the first mate. The captain has indulged him long enough. "Alright, Little Buddy. You've made your point. Let's go."

"No."

"Gilligan."

"I'm not moving." Gilligan closes his eyes and rolls over in his sleeping bag. Gilligan feels the dog lay down and curl up against his back and hears the Skipper sigh.

In his dream, Gilligan always wins. He's strong and confident and he finally gets the girl. Sometimes in this dream he even has his dress white Navy uniform on, just add an extra certain something to the visual.

It's like the end of a terribly cheesy romantic movie. One that would make Rex and Daphne proud.

It replays in his mind and haunts him with all of the options that he didn't take. All the things he didn't say. All the sprints down the jetway that he didn't take. He very plausibly could have had the dream outcome be his reality. That was the awful part. If he had just _moved_.

But he didn't.

Mary Ann swallowed hard. "What took you so long?" she whispered.

They stared at each other for another moment. Then Mary Ann turned and began slowly heading for the plane. She handed her boarding pass to the deflated stewardess without looking at her, watching her aunt and uncle's backs in front of her as she followed them into her old life, her real life.

Gilligan stared after her, his body immobile, but his brain reeling, urging him forward, screaming at him. "I'll wait!" Gilligan suddenly called, even surprising himself, and the murmuring crowd silenced again. The older women gasped, clutching their hearts again.

Mary Ann didn't stop walking. She couldn't. If she stopped, she wouldn't start again.

"At the corner," he added. "Where we met. Remember, Daphne?" Mary Ann flinched and paused for the briefest moment, nearly tripping. She glanced down at the book in her hand – Rex grinned up at her smugly, his muscles scarred with creases from the book's repeated readings. Daphne was smirking, content and bragging in her sailor's arms.

Mary Ann suddenly turned around and Gilligan's heart leapt. She backtracked to the perky blonde stewardess stationed at the door. Mary Ann pushed the romance novel into the girl's perfectly manicured hands. Then she turned away, letting her fingers trail over the worn and yellowed pages for a moment, and hurried down the jetway toward the waiting plane.

Gilligan gradually awakes one afternoon to the sensation of fingers brushing through his hair. He's convinced for a moment that he's in his hammock on the island, sick, and Mary Ann's trying to get him to wake up and drink some soup.

"M'sick, My Ann," he grumbles. His hammock sure is hard today.

"Gilligan?"

He cautiously opens his eyes against the sunlight, squinting as his brain tries to comprehend the unusual sight before him. A waterfall of beaded beige ending in two gold high heels.

Ginger is sitting beside him on the ground, propped up on a fluffy beach towel. Her car to the airport is parked at the curb, the driver leaning nonchalantly against the hood and staring out at the ocean.

Gilligan frowns. "Ginger."

She scratches his head gently with her nails. "You waited too long." Gilligan grunts indignantly. "Why don't you go after her? That's what Rex would do."

Gilligan sits up and pulls his legs under him. Ginger is peering at the cover of Mary Ann's romance novel studiously. The ticket girl gave it to Gilligan that day at the airport, sympathetically pushed it into his hands as he stared blankly at the door through which Mary Ann had disappeared.

"No, it's not." Gilligan snatches the book back from Ginger and hides it in the folds of his sleeping bag. "When Daphne tried to leave him, Rex swept her off her feet. Really, he picked her up."

"Why didn't you do that?"

"I think about that a lot." Gilligan frowns and stares out over the park toward the ocean. "When Daphne goes to visit her family, Rex isn't sure if she'll come back, but he thinks deep down she will. So he waits for her in the spot where they first met."

"Does she go back?" Ginger whispers.

"Of course."

People can't resist pausing to look at the man on the sidewalk. Word has gotten around and people are always there, sitting with him, gawking at him, telling him stories and taking his picture. When he wants to be alone, he pretends to be asleep and his canine friends sit guard. When he's in a better mood, he'll listen and occasionally talk with people.

Alani brings him a hamburger every day. "Maybe today, ipo," she always says.

He doesn't look up when her tan legs pause in front of him anymore.

He doesn't go inside when it rains.

Elderly men sit with him and tell him stories of their first loves. Sometimes they got married. Sometimes they lost her. Some of them are divorced, widowed, still single, married for fifty years.

Couples walk buy, wives smacking their husbands and chiding them for not being romantic like this young man. One man scowls back at his wife, "You'd have to leave me first and I'd never be that lucky."

Mrs. Howell calls the payphone halfway down the block to admonish him about the proper etiquette to employ in such a situation. She babbles for a while and Gilligan says nothing and eventually she runs out of steam and sighs. She tells him about how she turned down Mr. Howell's first proposal when they were in college, how he persisted and traveled all the way from Harvard to Vassar to wait for her after class every Friday because he had faith and knew deep down that she loved him. She tells him that she loves him like a son. She tells him to have faith. She forces herself to hang up before she tells him she wants grandchildren.

The Skipper stops trying to talk him into moving. Instead, he brings his lunch to Gilligan's spot and sits and eats with him. Two sailors and an occasional stray mutt lined up on the sidewalk. They don't talk much.

On Friday, a newspaper reporter spends the day with him. Gilligan tells him he's in for a really boring day, but he persists. He buys them sodas and they watch the people and eventually Gilligan begins talking. He tells him about how he knocked her over right in this very spot fifteen years ago. He tells him about the storm and the shipwreck and their life on the island. He tells him about Duke Williams and Mrs. Howell playing matchmaker and the time the women moved away like some Greek woman whose name sounds like a mouthwash. He tells him about Horace Higgenbotham and the beauty contest and the time Mary Ann hit her head and thought she was Ginger.

He tells him everything. What else does he have to lose?

And then the news crew shows up.

Three days later, Gilligan stares at the photo of himself in the newspaper. He's not smiling, but he didn't feel like smiling. He's not frowning either. He's looking away from the camera, out across the ocean. This beach faces the wrong direction, but he's staring at it so intently that the reader believes that he's staring all the way to the mainland, across thousands of miles, out of the black and white page of one of the thousands of local papers that have picked up the story and into the living room of a Midwestern family.

Gilligan stares at the article, the words running together across the page. They interviewed the Skipper and Alani, who told the reporter that she always hopes that maybe today is the day. The reporter caught Ginger before she got on her plane to and she gave a very moving speech about heartache that's probably from a movie she was in once.

"Miss Grant," the reporter asked as he opened her car door for her. "Where are you heading?"

Ginger smirked and leaned close to his ear. "Ohio," she whispered and with a wink she was gone.

All of Gilligan's quotes in the article sound overly dramatic and macabre, but that's how he feels. He's a little embarrassed, but he doesn't care. He feels like an idiot. Like he'll never get up off this sidewalk and be useful ever again. Like he has an empty space inside his chest now.

Gilligan has his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palm, pouting down at the newspaper, when an identical article and photo of him plops down on top of it. His eyes flicker up at the tan legs in front of him, then back to the paper.

"I'm not hungry, Alani. Give the Skipper my burger."

The articles surrounding his in this newspaper are different. He sees something about horses.

"Gilligan?"

It's not the voice he expected.

He freezes, eyes wide and fixed on her shins. His head snaps up and his brain vaguely registers a sea of gingham swinging past his field of vision before his eyes focus on her face.

She smiles ruefully. "Maybe today."


End file.
